The Luck of the Draw
by LadyFangs
Summary: A collection of short stories, what-if's, and one-shots. The several faces of Victor Creed. Ratings vary M-T
1. The Beast

**The Beast**

What a woman wants, a woman gets. And Creed was the gift that kept on giving. They hated him, called him a monster. A rapist. A Serial killer. An Assassin.

They liked to look down their noses at him. Liked to tell little kids horror stories about him. He was the boogie man that climbs into your house at night, and steals your toys. He eats your pet, takes your wife, and fucks her in front you.

Hide your children, hide your mate. Hide the dog. HE likes to play a deadlier version of hide-and-go-seek.

He could smell their fear, inhaled the scent like fresh roses. It tickled his nose, clung to the back of his throat like a long drag on a thick Cuban cigar. It drove him _wild_, that scent. It went straight to his head and made his cock hard.

Fear.

THAT was his aphrodisiac. And no matter how much they may be "scared" of him, when the lights went dark, and no one was watching, they ALWAYS found their way to his bed.

But Creed wasn't the type to kiss and tell. Instead, he fucked and fought. And if walls could talk, they'd be in the middle of an orgasm.


	2. The Gift

**The Gift**

Those that said Victor Creed didn't experience emotion didn't know what they were talking about.

He felt passion. He knew it first-hand. Passion is what drove him, sculpted his deadly craft with a firm, conscientious hand.

Passion is what guided his life, what drew him, ignited him, and consumed him.

One could say that he had too much passion—that he let that passion control him.

That would be true, but no one could ever say he lacked it. That he didn't feel it. That he didn't crave it. That it didn't exist.

Those that said Victor Creed could never love were talking out the side of their necks.

He loved his craft, loved the thrill it gave him, the feel of adrenaline and testosterone coursing in his veins, the feel of his heart pounding in his chest.

He loved the sensation of his hands. They almost-burned when he flexed them, allowing his natural "talents" to show themselves, splitting the calloused skin of his nail beds, flexing and growing, until finally, he could see them, could enjoy them at their fullest—their deadliest.

He loved it when the world changed, when, in his finest hour, his eyes would dilate to take in more light, his hearing would tune itself to a single sound, and all of a sudden, he was seeing, not through the eyes of man, but the eyes of something other…something, powerful…

Sometimes they said he was impervious to pain—that he had never known what it meant to lose something, to struggle for something.

And that on its face was a lie.

THEY had never known loss—what it felt like to be a mother-less child, what it felt like to be hungry. Not that simple "pangs" shit, but that real hunger, that bone-deep hunger that drove one to kill—not out of pleasure, but of necessity.

It was the kind of pain one couldn't see but could feel…the kind of pain when a child was beaten for nothing more than simply existing.

It was the kind of pain that gets drilled deep…so deep that at times one begins to accept another's definition…_beast, animal, _and accept it. And, ultimately, own it.

It was the kind of pain that one embraces…and wears, like a badge of pride, a symbol of honor…the kind of pain that drives the kind of pain that never goes away…

But it was not until today that he fully felt the weight of a lifetime of chances given, roads taken, and decisions made, that he realized what THEY had meant.

It could not have happened to a less-deserving person than he.

But it HAD happened.

He leaned down and inhaled, his nose gently touching a smaller one, against a face no bigger than the palm of his hand.

She inhaled, and even smaller hands touched the sides of his face.

It was in that moment that everything that Victor Creed thought about his life was transformed.

He was filled with an emotion he couldn't name…something so strong it physically hurt, and brought him, HIM, down to his knees.

The baby opened its eyes.

And he found himself staring into deep pools, the same as his own, in a face that looked like its mother's.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the sound that came out was choked. He couldn't talk, he couldn't move. For the first time, since he was young, he could only stay still, and just be.

Just FEEL…

The tiny body, with the little fists, and the big, dark eyes was his proof that it had happened. And it had happened, of all people…to him.

A gift. A chance. A pledge to be kept, an oath sworn by blood, in blood.


	3. How Deep the Night

Sabretooth and Mystique

How Deep the Night

He always came at night. Literally, and figuratively speaking.

She supposed it was the feline in him—the need to prowl, and pounce and conquer. He liked the thrill of the chase, and she loved to give him a run for his money.

They were two of a kind, unique unto themselves. And she had the added benefit of being both everyone and no one at the same time.

She wore her personalities like clothing—sexy, daring, shy, mischievous: sometimes, all of the above. But him…he could never hide what he was. And he didn't want to.

She admired him for that—for the boldness he wore effortlessly, something she had worked years for. A part of her worshipped him. Before him, she had only known mortals, boys trying to play dress up.

But HE was a god.

She'd sampled many flavors in her long lifetime, but this was something different. And from the moment she first laid eyes on him she had wanted to inhabit his skin. She wanted to get _inside_, to _feel_ him, immerse herself in him, to study under him and over him, on top of him…she wanted to BE him.

He was the greatest taboo, and Mystique had always been attracted to sinful things.

So she got to be bad, oh so very, very bad. And she enjoyed every minute of it with him. They didn't need words, they communicated through sex. It was all she wanted and he was only too glad to comply.

At night she knew what was coming.

She became addicted to his sound. It was the tinny chick of metal on metal, the whispered scratch of fabric on fabric. The gentle thump of heavy cloth on the floor.

But her favorite sound was of his belt buckle. Webbed nylon, Army grade and uniform standard. She loved that belt buckle. Its rectangle of polished brass gleamed in the moonlight. It taunted her, teased her. It held treasures that she loved to rediscover nightly. It beckoned to her like a long-lost lover.

To this day, Mystique had a thing about shiny, brass belt buckles. And she loved to collect those military belts. Some would have called it a fetish, but so be it. She was addicted. It started that day in Berlin. It had lasted decades since. In that time he hadn't aged a bit. And neither had she. Sometimes, she slept with it curled between her fingers, or, if the mood struck and she was feeling nostalgic, between her legs.

She made her lovers wear it—all of them tall blondes, incidentally. But somehow, it was never right. So maybe, one day, he might indulge her once again. And when he did, she'd make sure he was wearing the belt buckle.

She licked her lips in anticipation, remembering its taste, that deliciously metallic flavor - reminiscent of him…

Sometimes, on lonely nights, she'd take it in her mouth and relish the flavor…

God she loved that buckle. She had such fond memories of it. It burned as large and bright as Victor Creed did in her mind. The two were intimately connected, frozen for just a single moment in time. The sight, the sound, the period. When she thought of it, it made her flush.

It was the tinny chink of metal on metal, the whispered scratch of fabric on fabric. The gentle thump of heavy cloth on a carpeted floor.

Those were the last sounds she heard before his pants came down.


	4. Alpha

**Alpha **

He's worn coats of many colors, and none at all.

Army Green, trench-coat black, biker brown, business blue, straight-coat white, murderous red

But his favorite coat, the one he loves most, is his own skin.

Tanned.

Rugged.

Rough.

Calloused.

Glorious.

Even now, naked in the snow, 30-below, the wind whipping around him, howling and screaming, he stands, defiant.

He feels the strength in his hands.

He sees the world around him in shades of red, blue, yellow—heat and movement are magnified, illuminated, radiant—and he feels, just briefly—genuinely sad, that humans can't see the beauty around them as he can.

The doe breathes her last breath, and he watches in silence as the light fades from wide, black eyes. He lowers his head in a moment of quiet respect, then stands over his kill, triumphant.

He is Alpha Dominant.

Felines Sapiens Superior.

Sabretooth closes his eyes, inhales…

And Roars.


End file.
